


Perspective

by Ariana (Ariana_El)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Mandos, the frustration of not being alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 08:16:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20206585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariana_El/pseuds/Ariana
Summary: Feanor watches his brother challenge Morgoth.





	Perspective

**Author's Note:**

> Drag0nst0rm was as kind as to let me borrow some of the prompts from here: https://sweetteaanddragons.tumblr.com/post/186771783076/prompts#notes
> 
> I asked my friend to pick random numbers without knowing what she’s choosing and somehow she managed to combine “15. No one hurts _________ but me!“ and “32. Feanor and Fingolfin“. As for the third kind of prompt, the genre, I hated the first two she picked (epistolary and dystopia) and the fluff we agreed on… well, there is no combining fluff with these two.

**Perspective**

“You do not get to touch him.” Eyes burning with anger, hands clenched into tight fists, Feanor growls and glares. He would fight and bite and pierce and...

Except he can’t. He is in Mandos and the place yet again reminds him of his limitations. He cannot do anything but glare, though technically he doesn’t even have eyes. Not that such a minor inconvenience would stop him. The fact remains, however, that he cannot act. He can merely watch his brother challenging Morgoth and then slowly crumbling under the Vala’s power.

Fingolfin was doing well, at first. He came with all-too-known stubbornness and self-assurance and shouted insults. He was never one to use smooth words to win the favour of the people, yet he had chosen the words perfectly and so Morgoth emerged from his fortress to face the High King. Fingolfin attacks and wounds and Feanor feels a strange kind of satisfaction. That was a bold move, to have come like that; a move of a son of Finwe.

But as the duel goes on, his brother wearies, his movements slow down and Morgoth breaks through his defences.

Feanor burns. He saw his father crashed by the Enemy and he died trying to avenge him. He yearns to act, yet he is forced to watch his brother being wiped out too...

“You do not...” the growl dies in his not-so-material throat as Fingolfin stumbles and falls. If only there wasn’t the sea separating them, if only, if, if, if... The fact that he wasn’t technically alive would have been but a small nuisance.

It’s over. Manwe’s eagle comes for his brother’s broken body and Feanor looks away from the tapestry. He is boiling and Morgoth limping back to his fortress is but a small consolation. As much as he hates it, Feanor cannot do anything to avenge yet another member of his family. The list of foul deeds he would like to make Morgoth pay for is only growing longer.

What he can do is to find his brother. He knows where the spirits Namo has summoned come and he does not recall his time there as pleasant.

Feas shift swiftly within the Halls of Mandos with no boundaries to stop them, and so Feanor finds himself in what looks like an endless labyrinth of gray halls and shadowed chambers. He asks neither for permission nor for the way; it is easy to sense a new fea of his kin in Namo’s domain. Even ‘half brother’ (Feanor wants to laugh bitterly at that childish manner of his) is enough.

Being dead is not easy, Feanor knows that. He also remembers what it was like to die in a violent way with no hope that his death would gain something for their people. To die in despair is a tough thing. There is nothing that prepares an elf for death and the new sensation, along with the echo of fresh suffering, is overwhelming. The feas are bare in here, but it takes time to adjust, so Feanor doesn’t know whether his brother will recognise him.

“Nolo,” he says and the name feels strange. Ha has not called his brother so since Fingolfin was a child trotting after him and begging for attention.

“Fëanáro.” The voice of Fingolfin, or rather its projection in Mandos, sounds bone-weary, but his brother undoubtedly recognises him. This is a good sign, thinks Feanor and he moves closer.

“So I am dead.”

“You are.” It is strange, how some emotions come in Mandos as strong as in the world of living, yet some are dulled and some don’t matter anymore. Being dead is no longer a dread; it is a fact. Feanor sinks down on that non-describable floor of sorts next to his brother and sighs. “You know, when you said you’d follow my lead, I didn’t think you’d go this far.”

The sound Fingolfin makes is half a splutter of laughter, half a sob. “Neither did I,” he admits. “Neither did I...”

“So,” Feanor stands up and looks at his brother. “We’re in this together now,” he says and offers Fingolfin a hand.

A hand his brother accepts.


End file.
